


All that we have wrought

by trashgoblinwizardparty



Series: August 2019 Flash Prompt Fest [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, canon-compliant...sort of, ring horcrux
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 04:49:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20370967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashgoblinwizardparty/pseuds/trashgoblinwizardparty
Summary: Albus finds the ring horcrux.





	All that we have wrought

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wolf_of_Lilacs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolf_of_Lilacs/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [Wolf_of_Lilacs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolf_of_Lilacs/pseuds/Wolf_of_Lilacs) in the [TomarryFlashExchanges](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/TomarryFlashExchanges) collection. 

> **Prompt:**
> 
> Dumbledore/any horcrux. Albus has a lot of regrets.
> 
> for aubry! um this is super not betaed and i'm sorry. i hope you like it anyway?

The golden sunlight of late afternoon filtered in through the window of the Headmaster’s office. Motes of dust danced in the beams, and the light caught the errant bits of ambient magic that floated freely about the castle, giving the impression of glitter suspended in the air. 

Albus Dumbledore sat at his desk, his long fingers tented before him as he regarded a golden ring set with a large black stone. The sunlight glinted off the battered gold of the ring, but the stone itself seemed to almost absorb the light, making it look darker by contrast. Etched onto the surface of the stone was a symbol: a circle within a triangle, bisected by a line. 

The ring cast a long, purplish shadow across the desk. 

Too long. 

Albus’ eyes followed it with detached curiosity as it stretched to the edge of the desk and continued on against the wall. Its shape was that of a human. 

As he suspected. No, as he had _ known _ the case would be. 

The ring represented the desires of a past that he’d long since buried. 

The ring represented a chance to destroy a threat to the future. 

A Horcrux. A Hallow. 

Two warring desires burned within him.

Beside the ring, the Sword of Gryffindor lay. Its shadow was normal, and the light caught the rubies embedded in the hilt, making it seem as if it were coated in large drops of blood. 

Wordlessly, he lifted the Elder Wand and flicked it at the ring. The ring rose from its spot on the desk hovered in front of Albus’ face. He gestured with the wand and the ring obediently rotated in midair. One revolution, two, three. 

The shadow cast against the wall grew more solid with each turn until the shade of Tom Riddle stood where the shadow had been. He looked exactly as he did when he was seventeen: tall and unusually elegant—especially when compared to his peers who had all still been coltish and awkward—and unfairly handsome. 

Tom leaned indolently against the wall, his dark hair curling over his forehead. The planes of his face were highlighted beautifully by the dying sun, and Albus guiltily let his gaze wander down the column of the boy’s neck, past his adam’s apple, and to the hollow of his throat. The top button of his shirt was undone, and his Slytherin tie was loosened, Albus noticed (or rather, tried not to notice, as he had tried not to notice fifty years ago with the flesh and blood Tom Riddle). 

“Can you speak,” Albus asked the shade. 

“Of course I can, sir,” Tom—no, Tom’s horcrux—replied. 

He pushed off the wall with a languid grace that Albus almost envied and sauntered closer. Albus guardedly watched the shade approach. This was but a fragment of a soul, it shouldn’t have any magic of its own, but Albus gripped the Elder Wand tight anyway. There was no reason to not be cautious, after all. 

Tom only stopped when he was entirely too close for comfort. He leaned against the desk, interacting with it as if he were truly corporeal. Tom was near enough that Albus had to tilt his head up to look at him. Intentional, no doubt, but a transparently amateur power play all the same. 

Albus schooled his expression into his habitual mask of good-natured neutrality and waited patiently. He had many more years and far more experience under his belt to be intimidated by a mere teenager. The silence stretched on, tension mounting like a rubber band pulled taut. 

“Why did you call me here?” Tom snapped, breaking the silence at last. “Sir,” he added, long enough afterwards to be an insult. 

“I think you know why, Tom,” Albus said. 

An expression of rage flickered across Tom’s face for the briefest of moments, marring his handsome features, before settling into his own pleasantly neutral mask. 

“I’m afraid I don’t, Professor.” 

More games. Albus grew tired of it. 

“I’m sorry it has come to this, Tom,” Albus said, standing at last. He was secretly pleased that he was, even at his advanced age, still taller than a seventeen year old Tom Riddle. 

Albus held out his hand and wordlessly summoned the Sword. 

Tom’s eyes flicked from the Sword to the still-hovering ring and back again. Understanding dawned on his features and for a moment he looked like the scared, vulnerable young man he sometimes pretended to be around adults. The same pretense Albus had always seen right through. 

“Did you only call me here to watch me die?”

The words were bitter and sharp, but with an edge of challenge. 

And then: “Is that really why you wanted me here?” 

It was then that Albus made a fatal mistake. He looked Tom in the eye. 

Endlessly black, like the space between stars, or one of those black holes Muggle scientists wrote about. An object so dark that not even light could escape. Albus was caught, drawn in against his will. Thoughts that he had firmly locked away were torn free from their cages and brought to the surface, exposed to any who wished to see. Secrets foul and pale like squirming grubs found beneath an overturned stone. 

Thoughts of Tom. 

Thoughts of Tom as he appeared before Albus right now—or perhaps only a bit older: stolen glimpses of Tom poring over a book in the Library, his lower lip caught between his teeth in concentration and the golden light of a lantern gilding the side of his face. 

Tom, in Albus’ NEWT-level Transfiguration class, perfectly executing a very difficult bit of magic, making it look easy, as if it came as naturally as breathing to him while the rest of the class struggled. 

The way Tom’s cheeks flushed in a rare display of genuine pleasure at Albus’ praise in that same class. 

Tom, lowering his eyes to avoid Albus’ in a fetchingly demure way...one that was entirely calculated and artificial, but maddeningly attractive nonetheless.

Dueling Club, where the boys had shed their robes and were only in trousers and shirtsleeves. Tom, sweaty and disheveled after soundly defeating every opponent he matched with, and looking more alive than ever, even as he panted for breath. Albus had, at the time, valiantly tried not to notice how Tom’s clothing clung to his lean frame, had averted his eyes from the tantalizing sliver of flesh from the boy’s half-unbuttoned shirt— 

Albus wrenched himself free of the grip of Tom’s Legilimency, but it was too late. 

Tom looked genuinely shocked for half a moment, (something Albus took a perverse pleasure in seeing) and then smiled—a cold, cruel smile that held no warmth—and closed the space between them. 

Albus Dumbledore was a great many things: Wizard, Headmaster, and, unfortunately, a man with a weakness for a brilliant mind and a handsome face. For the briefest moment, he allowed that flaw to reign, as Tom’s lips brushed against his. For the briefest moment, he allowed himself to have this, and to think, hope, wish, dream, that perhaps, in a better world, their fates wouldn’t have been in such opposition. 

With the hand not holding the Sword, he pulled Tom closer and deepened the kiss. And then he pulled back, drinking in the sight of Tom’s lips, swollen-pink, the points of color high on his cheeks, and his dark curls, artfully mussed. He was truly a vision. 

And then, with a swiftness that belied his age, Albus swung the Sword and struck the stone, cracking it in half. 

There was a horrid scream and Albus looked one last time at the shade of the horcrux. Tom’s face twisted in rage and fear and possibly, maybe, a bit of betrayal before a white, lightning-shaped line spread down the center of his face and continued down his body, splitting him in half in a shower of white light. 

The backlash reverberated through Albus’ office, blowing scrolls and books off his desk, tipping over his little silver devices and waking the portraits. Albus found himself on the floor behind his desk. 

The hand that he’d destroyed the horcrux with was numb and beginning to blacken at the fingertips. 

He got to his feet, shaky and feeling every one of his one hundred and fourteen years, and tottered over to the fireplace. He threw a pinch of floo powder into the grate and leaned against the mantel while the emerald green flames flared up. 

“Severus, I’m afraid I’m in need of your assistance.” 


End file.
